


The Last Call

by SergeantLawson



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Crime Fighting, Drama, F/F, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantLawson/pseuds/SergeantLawson
Summary: Weiss is brought under the protection of the Vale City Police Department following a bloody raid on a Schnee Oil Company vessel, with Sergeant Ruby Rose designated as the protection team's leader. Tensions soon boil from harsher police crackdowns and increased strikes from White Fang supremacists. When the dust settles, there may be no society left to defend. Modern AU.





	1. Seizure At Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well… here goes nothing. Let’s hope I do my new favorite series the justice it deserves.

**July 16, 2037 - 0155 Hours**

_**SCV Schlesien** _ **, Schnee Oil Company Product Tanker**

**Pacific Ocean - 250 Miles South of Kenai, Alaska**

“ _Two-Four, this is Central. Check in, over.”_

On the upper deck of an oil tanker in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, a security guard leaning on a rail let out a sigh for the world. Could the watch sergeant leave him alone for more than five minutes?

“ _Two-Four, do you copy?”_

Apparently not.

A second man’s voice chimed in over the radio. _“Central, Two-Three. I heard a splash about five minutes ago; are we sure he didn’t fall overboard?”_ The guard smiled. If there was one good thing about getting stuck with the mid-watch _and_ freezing his ass off on the upper deck, it was his partner. The other man’s lightning-quick wit and grossly inappropriate sense of humor made the long nights entertaining.

“ _Two-Three, cut the chatter.”_ It was the watch sergeant again. _“Harvey, if you don’t pick up the radio in the next ten seconds, I’m sending another body after you.”_

Well, Jesus, if he put it that way; fine. The guard pushed himself out of his lean and made doubly sure to flick his cigarette over the side before replying. Most of the guys on midnight watch kept a pack in some obscure pocket, but smoking was technically still a no-no. Blowing a fat cloud of secondhand lung cancer into the mic (and by extension, the watch sergeant’s ear) probably wouldn’t end well.

He reached up to the radio clipped to his left shoulder, pressed the transmit button, bit back a myriad of snarky remarks, and spoke. “Central, this is Two-Four. Starboard side upper deck is all clear. Over.”

Irritation was laced into the sergeant’s reply. _“What the hell took you so long?”_

Harvey’s left hand unconsciously drifted up to touch the pack of American Spirits in his jacket’s inner chest pocket. “I was, uh, lost in thought, sir.”

“ _Right…”_ He could practically feel the watch sergeant’s raised eyebrow. _“Two-Three, Two-Four, are you sure you made your rounds?”_

Now that prompted a raised eyebrow of his own. Harvey was used to the supervisor double-checking his stories, but this time he sounded genuinely inquisitive. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“ _Radar picked up a contact a few minutes ago. It was small, and the ping barely registered, but the skipper still wants eyes out there.”_ Harvey stepped away from the railing so he wouldn’t cave in his own skull against it. _I swear to God, if it’s another fucking dolphin, I’m going to suck-start my SMG._ The underappreciated security guard tugged longingly at the shoulder strap attached to his second-generation KRISS Vector submachine gun. For a fleeting, glorious moment, he dreamed of actually using the damned thing.

The other guard’s voice shook Harvey out of his thoughts with a response that _wouldn’t_ get him fired. _“Two-Three here. That’s affirmative, sir.”_

Harvey sighed and hit the button again. “This is Two-Four. Everything up here’s clear, but I can come below deck if you need me to pinky swear it.”

“ _Boy, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood; otherwise I might feed you to the Ice Queen for talking to me like that. You’d best check your zone again before I change my mind.”_

Wait. Did Weiss Schnee eat people? He’d heard the horror stories; they all had; but he assumed they were just--

“ _Two-Four. Check. Again.”_

Harvey’s posture deflated as he resigned himself to his fate. “Ten-Four.” He let go of the radio and mumbled something about grizzled cock gobblers.

Purely because he wanted to and not because “Daddy Dispatch” gave him a direct order, Harvey turned around and looked fore and aft. Color him surprised: since his last check-in thirty minutes ago, none of the shipping containers that permeated the deck had grown legs and attacked him. And despite the SOC’s paranoid wariness of pirates, no evil shemagh-wearing marauder had jumped out of the shadows to shove an AK-47 up his nose, either. That was always a plus.

In his expert conclusion, the deck was _not_ being incinerated by a column of hellfire. Harvey turned back around and tracked his eyes over the ocean like the steely-eyed, vigilant sentry from the job description. After he was hired and reality hit him like a drunk stepfather, Harvey had memorized every last detail of the uniformed poster boy on that webpage. His dark blue pants, freshly pressed with creases that could slice butter, had promised a free pair of slacks. The polish on his black dress shoes had sparkled like the hope in his eyes. The man’s white short-sleeved button-down reflected the light in his soul. The golden security officer’s badge pinned above his left breast pocket marked him as a god of order to lowly employees, and the Schnee Oil Company insignias emblazoned into the shoulder patches whispered honeyed words of income stability into Harvey’s young, impressionable ears.

Thomas Harvey hated that man with every fiber of his being. He couldn’t wear the slacks in public thanks to the giant golden “SOC” stitched into the right asscheek. He had spilled the shoe polish onto his bleach-white shirt ten minutes before his first shift. The badge on his chest had inspired hatred instead of respect, but the company logos on his shoulders were the icing on the cake, and a constant reminder of Jacques Schnee’s crushing iron grip on his soul. In his haste, Harvey had signed a seemingly unimportant document. The room’s other occupant, a middle-aged security officer, happily informed Harvey that he had just given written consent to a four-year employment contract. The older man’s tone was joyous, but his eyes had screamed _your ass is mine now, motherfucker!_

Oh yeah, and the ocean was still _the fucking ocean_. Harvey made a note to inform the watch sergeant if he spotted anything more interesting than tiny particles of whale shit.

“ _Harvey, I’m going to count to one, and if you-”_

“Central, this is Two-Four. After detailed inspection, the starboard zone of the upper deck is clear of any hazards. Over.” Harvey tried to grind his teeth into dust. His efforts were a colossal failure.

“ _That’s better. Next SITREP in fifteen minutes. Central, out.”_

Harvey rested his forearms on the rail and let his head hang down over the side. Perhaps if he focused intensely enough, the North Pacific Ocean’s frigid dark waters would spell out a cure for his self-inflicted depression. He was about to sink into another round of pitch black internal grumbling when he registered the sound of footsteps approaching from his left. Harvey turned his head to see the deck’s other guard strolling up to join him. Like Harvey, the other man wore a high visibility jacket over his uniform.

“Hey, Weinstein,” he said in greeting after the newcomer set his weapon against the rail. Harvey eyed the MCX Virtus short-barreled rifle with a trace of envy. Sure, his Vector was a good weapon, but it didn’t look nearly as cool. Either way, if he could compliment the Schnee Oil Company on one thing, it would be the care they took in security measures. Whether they actually gave a shit about their guards’ wellbeing or were just protecting their assets, Harvey couldn’t say.

The other man smirked. “I have a first name, you know.”

“Alright, Mark,” he said with an eye roll, “Want a cancer stick?”

Weinstein held out his hand. “You know it. Pass me that stage four shit.”

Harvey cracked a smile of his own as he donated a cigarette and held up his open lighter. Even with the unreal amounts of flak they caught for being named Harvey and Weinstein, the two guards never failed to lift each other’s spirits. Humor aside, they could talk about anything under the sun; some of the most interesting conversations of Harvey’s life had come out of similar midnight chats.

“Mark…” Harvey sighed, “What are we doing out here?”

His friend cocked an eyebrow. “Uh, guarding disgustingly huge fuel shipments with the worst possible shift schedule?”

That drew a small laugh out of Harvey, at least. “No; I mean what are we _doing_ out here?”

Weinstein gave his partner a curious look. “What’s on your mind, Tom?”

Harvey took a drag off his own cigarette. “I don’t know, man. Do you think Canada’s gonna rebel?”

The other man narrowed his eyes. “The hell is a _Canada’s_? I’m sure you mean the Greater American Province of Vale, right?” They both cackled like idiots, even though the recently christened Greater American Republic _had_ annexed Canada back in 2021 and leveled five of its cities to construct the capital of Vale.

Harvey grinned at the… active global political scene of the past twenty years. “First, we become the GAR and annex Canada. Then the Germans decide they’ve had enough of terrorists, corrupt politicians, and the whole damned EU for that matter. They rename themselves ‘Atlesians’ for some reason, sweep through all of Europe except for the UK, and then steamroll Russia up to Belgorod.” He shook his head, but the grin remained. “The Atlesian Empire… the past couple decades have been pretty crazy, huh?”

Weinstein smirked. “You’re telling me.” He flicked a clump of ashes off the side of the ship. “But come on; spill it. What’s really bothering you?”

Harvey scratched at his temple. “It’s just… why are we out here? Don’t get me wrong; protecting this stuff from point A to point B is important. But do _we_ have to be the ones doing it?” The guard blew out a lungful of smoke. “I feel like I’m just wasting my life, walking up and down the same damned deck every night. Hell, what are _you_ doing out here? You’ve got a kid on the way.”

“Hell yeah. Little asskicker’s due next week.” Weinstein was positively beaming, and it proved infectious.

Harvey clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Mark. Seriously. But what are you gonna do about this?” He made a sweeping gesture to the ship as a whole. “Ellen can’t raise the kid by herself while you’re stuck on a ship.”

“She won’t have to. I’m transferring to the refinery down in Washington. We’ve already got a house down there and everything. This is my last trip.”

“Oh.” Harvey looked downcast. “I’m gonna miss you, buddy.”

A hand on his shoulder made him look up. “You should come, too. There’s still openings for security. Besides, you just said it yourself: you don’t want to waste away on this tanker looking at the same ocean float by over and over.”

Harvey found himself nodding along. “That sounds like a good idea, but I don’t have anywhere to stay in Washington. And I can’t just leave Mary up here in Alaska.”

Weinstein shifted around to fully face his partner. “Okay, hear me out on this. You’ve been sharing an apartment with her for two years now, and you’ve been dating for almost five. When are you gonna pop the question?”

A sly smirk crawled up Harvey’s cheeks. “Funny you should say that.” He patted his jacket’s lower-right pocket, where a small, but very special velvet box was tucked away. “As soon as I see Mary when we make port, I’m gonna get down on one knee and ask her to marry me.”

The other guard pulled Harvey into a crushing bear hug. “You slick son of a bitch! Congratulations in advance, dude!” Blackness was creeping into Harvey’s oxygen-starved vision when Weinstein finally released him. “You know, if you two need somewhere to crash… you could always stay with us.”

Harvey’s jaw just about hit the deck plates. “You can’t be serious.”

“Aw, come on; there’s plenty of room! I already talked it over with Ellen; we’d love to have you both until you can get your own place.”

For once, Harvey was left speechless. “I… wow. Mark, I… I don’t know what to say.”

A borderline abusive slap on the back accompanied Weinstein’s laughter. “Then don’t say anything. You’re like a brother to me, Tom. I’ll be damned if I let you waste away like this.”

Harvey couldn’t think of a remotely sufficient way to show his gratitude, so they lapsed into a comfortable silence. The Pacific Ocean’s dark waters now appeared soothing instead of oppressive as the pair of guards gazed out over the horizon with a far more positive look on life.

The last thing both men ever heard was the _pfft-pfft_ of suppressed pistols firing into the backs of their skulls.

XXXXX

Behind the dead guards, two masked men lowered their sidearms. Each man wore a dark grey carrier rig over a black full body wetsuit, fully loaded with a wide variance of military-grade equipment, from flash grenades to fiber optic cameras. The ballistic goggles attached to their helmets were currently generating a night vision overlay. The intruders picked up the guards’ bodies and unceremoniously dumped them over the side of the _Schlesien_.

One of the men touched a finger to his ear. “This is Beta Team. Deck security neutralized. Exfil route is clear.”

In the bowels of the ship, three more infiltrators stood in a room full of dead men. One released his grip on the watch sergeant’s mouth as he removed a serrated combat knife from the side of his neck. “Gamma Team here. Security hub neutralized. Surveillance cameras and dispatch are no longer a concern. Alpha Team, you are clear to execute.”

“Alpha Team copies. We’re moving in.”

On the upper decks, a man released his earpiece and moved his hand back down to grip his rifle. He was one of three stacked up to the left side of a hatch. Three more operatives were lined up on the opposite side. The man in front of him held up an open hand and counted down from five on his fingers. When he reached zero, the other side’s point man opened the hatch and tossed in a concussion grenade. The device went off with a sharp _bang_ , and the half-dozen operatives stormed the bridge. The ship’s two remaining security guards were neutralized with precision bursts to the chest, with follow-up headshots into their corpses for peace of mind. “Shocked” did not even begin to describe the four bridge officers’ expressions.

A seventh intruder strode through the hatch, but this man was dressed quite differently. Military gear and night-vision goggles were replaced with a white red-lined suit, black slacks, a scarf and a bowler hat. His flaming orange hair hung low enough to obscure one of his emerald eyes. As if his appearance was not already unique enough, he carried a black, grey-handled cane with a dark red bottom in his left hand.

The man spread his arms in a wildly inappropriate welcoming gesture. Noticing a single woman among the four officers, he removed his hat. “Well, would you look at that? I’m the new captain, just like that. Hold this for me, would you?” The suited man threw his cane sideways without so much as a glance. One of the operatives on his left caught it as he stalked right up to the surviving bridge crew, and the captain in particular. “You. What’s your name?”

“A-Alan,” the older man stammered out.

His counterpart leaned forward with a lurid grin. “Got a last name there, Alan?”

“It’s, uh… Wells. Alan Wells.” A large bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

The red headed man settled a hand against his chest. “Hi, Alan; I’m Roman. Roman Torchwick. And since I’m the captain now, I guess this qualifies as a mutiny.” He threw his arms around two of the other officers’ shoulders. Roman grinned as he looked between them. “Isn’t that right, boys?”

The men’s frantic nods must have been the correct answer: the apparent leader released them and stepped back. In yet another odd move, the suited man drew a knife from the inside of his jacket, ran his dark green eyes over its blade, and began absently flipping it in his right hand as he paced across the bridge.

“You know… when I was a kid, pirates _always_ fascinated me. Way back when, all you’d need was a ship, a couple dozen less-than-reputable bodies to run it, some flint, powder and lead, and you could make yourself rich.”

He raised a finger, as if he was holding an audience in suspense. “But one thing in particular about that era interested me more than anything else. Anyone care to take a guess?” Torchwick looked around. “Anyone…?”

Torchwick smiled, shook his head and chuckled. “Gentlemen… lady…” He pointed at the sole female officer, “Everyone, come on; _relax_. I’m not going to bury this steel beauty in a windpipe for no reason!” He laughed again, louder this time. If the abnormal behavior put off any of his men, they didn’t say anything. “Ha ha… oh… oh, that’s good. But, I did ask a question. Take a guess what interested me?”

Silence still reigned. “Anyone?”

Torchwick looked at each of the officers in turn. “No? Guys, you’re leavin’ me hanging here.”

After another stretch of silence, he finally relented. “Alright, alright, I’ll tell you. It was the mutinies. Now, when I say that, I don’t mean whatever led up to them; they all started for different reasons. No no no, I was… am interested in the mutiny itself. People who had worked, fought and bled together, turning on each other in the blink of an eye? Heavy stuff, I tell ya. But the main event was what they’d do to the skipper.”

He looked directly at the captain. “Back then, they had all kinds of messed up executions. If the captain was lucky, they’d tie him to the mast and shoot him, but that almost never happened. They might tie your hands and feet together, slit open a vein or three and dump you in shark-infested waters. They might keelhaul you: tie you up and drag you underneath the ship, port to starboard. You’d be lucky not to get torn to shreds with all the barnacles and splinters poking out of the hull. They might even hold you down on a table and force-feed you burning coals. I even read about a guy who had molten tin poured in his ears; yikes!” Torchwick shivered dramatically. “Just thinking about some of that stuff gives me the willies.”

Torchwick locked eyes with the captain again, this time with a far more sadistic smile. “But hey… it was par for the course. By now, I think you know who these fine individuals behind me are. And for a bunch of angry Faunus whose favorite pastimes are setting off improvised explosives and mutilating Atlesian soldiers? Well, I can’t imagine the next few minutes of your life are going to be full of sunshine and flowers.” He pointed to two of his men. “You and you, take the captain below deck. Pry out any information you can, and then drown him.”

The captain’s panicked begging was cut short when one of the assigned operatives stepped forward and slammed his rifle stock into the older man’s stomach. He doubled over with an explosive breath, and the same stock came down on the back of his head. Both masked men lifted the captain up by his arms and legs before he could recover, but that didn’t stop him from begging his comrades for help as they carried him off the bridge.

Torchwick gave himself a brief lookover after the two men were gone, inspecting his suit for any damage. He found nothing, if the way he nodded to himself was any indication. Roman brushed off his jacket, looked around one last time, and walked off the bridge with another operative on his heels. The red headed criminal stopped with one foot through the hatch. “Could you three shoot them and set the charges for me? As much as we’d all like to stay and have fun, we do have a schedule to keep.”

He and the other person ignored the sharp coughs of suppressed weapons fire as they left the bridge. They spent the next minute in silence, winding their way through corridors and ladders until they were out on the surface deck once again. Once they were in open air, Torchwick assumed a purely businesslike tone. “So how did we do?”

Though a balaclava covered her face, the woman who had accompanied him into the hallway sounded pleased. “I must admit, your people performed admirably.”

Torchwick grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Three hundred, right?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. Three hundred thousand in cash, as previously agreed upon. You did exactly as you were asked, Mr. Torchwick, and you did it well. My employers will be satisfied with today’s results.”

“Uh, yeah, about that. I know we had an understanding with the whole ‘need to know basis’ thing, but how exactly are we getting the goods out of here?”

Bright amber eyes flicked down to a digital wristwatch worn over her left glove. Roman could just start to hear the distant whine of aircraft engines when the woman looked up again. “I’m glad you asked.”

XXXXX

**July 16, 2037 - 1430 Hours**

**Vale City Police Department, Central Precinct**

**Vale City, Vale**

“...so I tell the guy, if God is your authority, then so am I. I swore this oath under God, so you, my friend, are shit out of luck.”

Only through years of discipline did Sergeant Ruby Rose manage to stop herself from doubling over in a fit of giggles. She and the other officer were leaning against a countertop in the lounge. Aside from the sergeant’s triple golden chevrons sewn into her long sleeves, she wore the same dark blue police uniform as everyone else, with a black tie held against her shirt by a gold clip. The lounge’s six other occupants had spread themselves out in various couches and chairs, with the sole exception of an officer refilling his coffee behind her. “Oh… oh man, that’s good. I’ll have to remember that one.” Ruby took a deep breath to settle the rest of her laughter. “Let me guess, he still didn’t consent?”

“He still did not consent. Rolled up his window too.” He paused to let Ruby finish her sigh of exasperation. “Then the batons came out and… well, you know it always goes from there.”

The grey-eyed woman hummed in affirmation as she took a long sip of her coffee. If one were to do the math, though, it was technically sixty percent coffee, twenty percent milk, fifteen percent Irish Creme Coffee-mate, and five percent sugar. Scientists were still baffled as to how she hadn’t collapsed from heart failure yet. “Did he at least give up after you busted his window and pulled him out of the car?”

The officer snorted and raked a hand through his sandy blond hair. “Oh hell no; that was when it got _really_ interesting. This dude’s like, forty-something, right? I’m in my mid-twenties and sixty pounds lighter, minimum.” He exhaled at Ruby’s arched eyebrow. “Heavy dude. Like, _would this guy pop like a beach ball if I stick him with a needle_ heavy. Anyway, you’re not gonna believe this. I hadn’t even pulled the cuffs off my belt when he started screaming _rape_.”

Ruby's eyes bulged. “No.”

Her counterpart grimaced at the memory. “Yyyyeah. And this was at eleven in the morning. Every friggin’ head in a hundred-meter radius just pivots straight at me. Thank God none of ‘em actually did anything.”

A second female called out, “What, you mean like when you got tased during a bar fight on your first day?”

The man’s dark green eyes snapped towards the source: a lilac-eyed corporal whose excessive mass of golden hair was barely contained in a regulation ponytail. “Oh piss off, Xiao Long! That was Mike’s fault, not mine!” The rest of the lounge quieted in the wake of his too defensive, too indignant, and altogether too loud response.

Yang smirked and sing-songed, “Not his fault you got clocked in the lips.” A maddening slurp of her coffee followed it up.

Feeling spotlit, the officer tried to redirect the room’s attention with an accusatory finger. “Hey, I was just a baby cop! That man punched an _infant_. What kind of partner misses that badly with a taser, anyway?”

Ruby quietly nursed her favorite coffee mug in the background. On the side facing away from her, its black surface was stamped with _“Obey & Survive”_ in white. She probably should have intervened in their little altercation by now, but as the other side of her mug sagely advised, there was _“Nothing to see here.”_ Besides, why shut down quality entertainment?

Yang snorted. “Uh. You.”

“Wait. What are…” The other officer froze, horrific realization smacking him across the face. A vein pulsed in his neck. “Xiao Long, don’t you fu--”

“What, you don’t remember? The guy bobbed and weaved at the last second, and there was an electric fence?”

The emotionally abused officer’s entire face and neck flared up into a fascinating shade of crimson. He returned his oppressor’s venomous strikes with the blinding fury of a thousand suns. “At least my body cam doesn’t record the fucking _skyline_ , Miss Watermelon Cans!”

One officer gasped. Another tried to hide in a corner. Ruby’s hand drifted above her taser as she slowly backed away. “You’re _really_ rocking that silicon valley over there, ain’t ya, Corporal? I’ve heard some horror stories about your back pains; holy shit.” Choked snickers escaped the less disciplined officers in the room. Which was everyone. Ruby would make sure to bite her tongue harder next time. “Oh yeah, and don’t think I don’t know how many bras you’ve snapped this year.” Was that steam coming out of Yang’s head? “If the grapevine don’t lie… we’re up to ten now, aren’t we?”

Ruby looked on in awe. _Fuck me. He’s actually right._ She made a mental note to warn Nora before her sister put two and two together. Fleeing the country would take time, after all.

The elder Xiao Long bolted upright. _“EXCUSE ME?!”_ A heavy, gravity-defying bounce and sharp sting in her back did not help her case. At least now she knew whose side physics were on.

Yang’s enraged retalitatory salvo died in her throat when an older woman’s voice floated into the lounge. “Am I interrupting something?”

Everyone, even Yang, stiffened up and shot to their feet at Lieutenant Goodwitch’s entrance. The tall, middle-aged officer swept the room in a gaze that made the innocent nervous and the guilty sweat. After half a minute of pin drop silence, Goodwitch made a small noise in the back of her throat. Yang wound never admit it, but she felt her soul being judged, deemed unworthy, and cast into the pits of hell under the other woman’s intense emerald gaze.

“Corporal Xiao Long.” Yang willed her knees to stop quivering and tried to from an innocent smile. It came out more like a pained grimace. She exhaled when Goodwitch turned her gaze away. “Sergeant Rose.”

Now it was Ruby’s turn to look like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Well, her right arm _was_ currently elbow-deep in the department cookie jar, but that was beside the point.

Lieutenant Goodwitch stopped again before speaking. The damned woman loved her dramatic pauses. Ruby felt her badge trying to tear itself off her chest and drag her screaming into the unemployment line.

Instead of pouring gasoline all over her career and striking a match, Goodwitch motioned for them to follow. “Come with me.”

The brunette’s heart started kicking again. She was so relieved, she almost forgot to pick up her coffee on her way out. Almost.

“Catch you later, Sarge,” said the target of Yang’s verbal abuse, tossing her a two-fingered salute.

“Sure,” she responded with a wave.

Ruby never saw, mentioned, or heard from him again for the rest of the story. He was a minor character.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't even start getting into how much I love RWBY: if I do, we'll be here all night. Instead, I'll take the time to answer a burning question: “Sarge, I read your little description, but what actually is this?” Spoiler alert, it's an AU. You got me. The plot just got blown wide open. Okay but in all seriousness, this idea popped into my head less than a week ago, and I just had to write it down before it was gone. The most important detail for you to know is that there's no “woogly-boogly magical bullshit.” That means no auras, no Semblances; none of that. In here, it's just steel and lead. Other than that, I will build and explain the world around you as we move along.
> 
> Oh, and before anyone calls me out for Ruby being OOC, let me stop you right there. I call this version of her “Salty Ruby” for a reason. She used to be her canon self, but... well. All will make sense in due time.


	2. Glynda's Briefing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lt. Goodwitch gathers a few selected officers for an unusual assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patch notes, 9/19/18: This really only applies to the FFN version (this updated doc is going up with its initial posting on AO3), but whatever. I went back and touched up a few things, added a detail to Glynda’s office, and redid my ending Author’s Note. Thank you to the person who pointed out its (unintentionally) hostile tone. I realized they were right after reading back through. Allow me to extend my apologies to anyone who felt the same way. I also took out my closing line: it was meant in jest, but in hindsight, grabbing a hot-button political topic and flailing it around like a marionette wasn’t my brightest idea ever. Lastly, I added something after my AN. It’s… better if you see for yourself. It will be present in every chapter from here on in.
> 
> Also, quick note: Ruby’s voice is deeper in this fic. Probably somewhere between Jennifer Hale and Linda Hamilton. I know it’s a huge jump, but that’s just the way I imagine she’d sound here (she’s twenty-five by now anyway).

**July 16, 2037 - 1435 Hours**

**Vale City Police Department, Central Precinct**

**Vale City, Vale**

Ruby and Yang stepped into Goodwitch’s office. The lieutenant closed the door behind them. The room, like its host, was not one for flashy aesthetics. Her rectangular mahogany desk was probably the most eye-catching object in view -- not that there was much else to draw comparisons between. The oak walls in front and to the sides of the desk ended at shoulder height. Windows covered the remaining distance to the ceiling, with a withered, decrepit potted thing that may have once been a plant sitting in the sill to the right. It was a gift from a well-known snaky defense attorney: he bestowed it upon her during a client’s trial for felony eluding, reckless driving, resisting arrest, DUI, indecent exposure (he’d been naked), and battery via bodily waste (he’d pissed on an officer).

Needless to say, Goodwitch’s permanent disapproving scowl was immune to his attempt at garnering favor. Then again, a merciful outcome would have been miraculous after his client sucker punched the bailiff and ended up beneath a pile of blue uniforms with enough volts coursing through his nervous system to make a lobotomy patient dance.

An American flag hung from its pole in a corner behind the desk, and the fourth wall behind it was painted a dull grey. Evidently, no one had explained the purpose of an accent wall to Goodwitch: instead of adding light and vibrance to the room, the empty, neutral shade of her choice seemed to devour all traces of joy within visual range. Perhaps the woman’s life had been so deprived of happiness that brighter colors hurt her eyes. Either way, the necrotic, all-consuming grey was the most depressing color Ruby had ever seen.

The desk was a flawless example of organization. In contrast to Ruby’s own office, all of Goodwitch’s paperwork was kept in a neat stack at the right-hand corner of her desk. A small flag holder at the front of her desk displayed pocket-sized versions of the Valean provincial and American flags at opposing angles, next to a half-dozen militaristically aligned pens. Goodwitch’s computer occupied most of the desk’s left side. Like all other desktop computers in the station, the center of her dark blue mousepad played home to a golden VCPD badge.

Two black leather chairs were placed in front of the desk, unoccupied despite two other officers already being in the room. Ruby didn’t blame them for staying next to the wall. If the rumors were true, flaming obsidian chains would shoot out of the chairs, ensnare female officers and drag them screaming down into the depths of hell, where they would be injected with the gay by their new succubus mistresses and kept as sex pets to feed the depravities of red-skinned demonesses that literally fuck people to death. _At least they get to be immortal or something. Eating carpets and getting destroyed by strapons until the end of time sure sounds like more fun than playing Ring Around the Parking Lot and collecting dime bags full of Tyrone’s Secret Baking Powder._

The other possibility was that Goodwitch was into some seriously freaky porn, because Yang really did hear muffled screaming and evil cackles coming from this office one time. Sure, she’d just finished up a sixteen-hour overtime shift and was in the middle of a caffeine crash, but this was Yang. Such an honest soul would never lie about something like that, right?

While Yang went spelunking in her mind’s proverbial gutter, Ruby greeted the blonde’s girlfriend, as well as the accompanying officer. “Hey, Belladonna, Nikos.” They were all well past a last-name basis, but Lieutenant Goodwitch loved formality. _‘Fed to K-9 units for breach in professionalism’_ wouldn't be a very dignified gravestone inscription. Ruby didn't know why the other two officers were here in the first place, but she knew better than to ask. The lieutenant was nothing if not direct; she would provide all necessary information.

A soft “Hello” accompanied Pyrrha’s small wave, while Blake merely tilted her head in acknowledgement. The Faunus wore the same long-sleeve shirt and black tie as Ruby, except for the corporal’s double golden chevrons on her sleeves. Blake’s usual duty cap was gone, as she felt no need to hide her ears in a government building. Pyrrha, on the other hand, preferred the VCPD’s short-sleeve uniform, as did Yang. This uniform variant lacked a tie, leaving the dark blue shirt’s top button undone to expose her white tee underneath.

Pyrrha liked the shorter sleeves because they gave her arms room to breathe. Yang’s reason was the lack of a tie, and by extension, leaving the top button undone. Despite popular (and very carefully spread) rumors, she did not enjoy being choked. In fact, when filling out the requisition form, the blonde had gone so far as to fill half of the ‘reasons for request’ box with _“2 THICC 4 TIE”_ in oversized handwriting. She had used the other half to sketch up a crude diagram, to help cement the urgency of her request. Ruby sighed internally at the memory. The other sergeants gave her enough shit about her sister’s shameless personality to begin with, so Yang dropping that form on her desk hadn’t been helpful. _I really didn't need to know Yang was that good at drawing tits._

The VCPD insignia was sewn into all four officers’ right shoulders. Greater American Republic flag patches were sewn into the left. Police uniforms down in the fifty states still displayed the Star-Spangled Banner, but Valean law enforcement wore the GAR colonial banner instead. _Because we all know Canadians aren’t_ real _people, and they need daily reminders of exactly who deleted their cucked inferior government and exponentially improved their employment rates, economic prosperity, and national security._ Blake, Yang and Pyrrha all had silver VCPD badges pinned to the left side of their chests. Ruby’s badge was identical save for the blue stripe across the middle, with her rank silver-lettered through it.

For her part, Lieutenant Goodwitch wore a simple white button-down dress shirt, dark grey knee-length pencil skirt, black stockings and short heels. The woman was six feet and three inches tall even without the heels; any more of a height boost would have made her an honorary Amazonian. To affirm her authority while out of official uniform, a wallet badge was clipped securely to the front of her skirt between her navel and right hip bone. As a higher ranking officer, Goodwitch’s badge was gold instead of silver. Similar to Ruby, her lieutenant’s rank was lettered on a blue stripe across the middle.

Lacking a duty belt, Goodwitch kept herself armed with a black leather shoulder holster. Thanks to the VCPD’s wide variety of accepted backup weapons, Glynda carried a silver steel-bodied Colt M1911 in the strap under her right arm. It had seen action in the Second World War, yet its lovingly maintained wood and steel bore no visible damage. True to her constantly prepared mindset, seven forty-five caliber rounds were ready to be stripped off the magazine and sent downrange with the flick of a thumb and pull of the slide. Three more shined and polished magazines were tucked side by side into a triple mag pouch on the left strap.

Yang ended up taking the chair on the left. Yes, there were the rumored dangers of forced induction into the Devil’s harem… but her back _really_ ached. For personal reasons. Said reasons had absolutely nothing to do with the number 36, or the letter F. “So, what’s up, El-Tee?”

Ruby would have rolled her eyes at Yang’s blatant lack of formality, but it was expected at this point. Her older sister didn't mean any disrespect by her casual speech; it was just in Yang’s nature. Thankfully, Goodwitch had more or less accepted the corporal’s mannerisms for what they were, so long as she remained professional in public.

Glynda moved past the quartet of officers to stand in front of her desk. “A terrorist organization may possess sufficient resources to wage guerrilla war against law enforcement on a national scale.”

Yang’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “Excuse me… _what?_ ”

Glynda’s response was part nod, part hum, knowing they would need a few seconds to process that bombshell. Pyrrha coughed and looked to her right at Blake. At first glance, the Faunus’s widened eyes appeared to be her sole reaction. To those who knew the officer well enough, however, the way Blake subtly shifted her weight against the wall meant the news had still hit her like a smack in the face.

Ruby lowered herself into the empty chair with a deliberate exhale, making full use of the armrests on her way down. “O… kay. Straight to the point, then.” She took a breath to organize her thoughts. “What have we got?”

Goodwitch touched a button under her desk, and the windows darkened. Now with a measure of privacy, the lieutenant opened one of her desk drawers, withdrew a blank file folder, and held it out to Ruby. Goodwitch spoke as Ruby cracked the folder open and leafed through the files within. They were all full-page images. She handed Yang the files individually as she finished looking them over. Her sister then passed them up to Blake, who in turn passed them off to Pyrrha.

“We acquired these from federal authorities. They, in turn, originally received them from the Coast Guard. You’re looking at the _Schlesien_ , a Schnee Oil Company tanker boarded, raided, and subsequently abandoned last night.”

Blake looked between two pictures in her hands. They were shots of an oil tanker’s upper deck, taken from a low-flying aircraft. Together, they showed a severe anomaly: the surface deck was empty. Blake narrowed her eyes. “This is a tanker, so where’s the cargo?”

“Stolen,” came Goodwitch’s reply. “Out of forty-eight full sized shipping containers, not one was left behind.”

“Holy shit,” Ruby whispered before raising her voice back up. “Casualties?”

“Thirty-two dead,” the lieutenant delivered grimly to her officers’ shocked expressions, “The ship’s entire security detail, plus three bridge officers and the captain, and two crewmen who tried to fight back on the lower decks.”

Blake did the math. “Hold on. You’re telling me an oil tanker had twenty-six guards?”

Pyrrha mirrored Blake’s suspicion. “That’s more security than we had on the _Makin Island._ ” The redhead was referring to the Wasp-class amphibious assault carrier she served on during her time in the Navy.

Goodwitch raised a hand to quell any rampant thoughts. “The _Schlesien_ ’s security may have been tight, even by SOC standards, but that has nothing to do with us.”

Yang scoffed. “Well, at least the bastards didn't get far with the Coasties on their tails, right?” Her face fell at the older blonde’s lack of response. “Uh… right?”

Pyrrha blinked with wide eyes. Incredulity was clear as day in the redhead’s words. “They have evaded the Coast Guard?”

Goodwitch drew her lips into a tight line with a small affirmative noise. “When the Bureau last updated us two hours ago, their agents on the shoreline and in the surrounding area had still found no trace of the cargo, or the attackers. The Coast Guard forces at sea were not faring any better.”

Ruby set her hands on her knees as her inner sergeant focused on laser-engraving every detail into her memory. “What happened, exactly?”

“Obviously, the _Schlesien_ was attacked. Pirates would be likely suspects, if there were any hostages taken or demands made -- which there weren’t.”

Ruby tucked a thumb under her chin and curled a knuckle over her lips, studying the security camera shot in her other hand with a clinical eye. Its resolution was higher than the average cam, which allowed Ruby to pick out finer details. The image displayed a corridor somewhere below deck, empty save for a lone figure geared more like a private military operator than a marauder.

“These guys are way better equipped than pirates anyway. Plate carrier, helmet with NVGs… submachine gun with a suppressor; looks like an Evo 3… and those are either flashbangs or concussion grenades. I can't tell from here.”

Yang whispered beside her, “Where the hell did they even get this kind of hardware?” The blonde was looking at a similar scene. Her image showed two men advancing back to back up a surface deck staircase, armed with short-barreled versions of the AK-12 automatic rifle.

Pyrrha posed a question of her own. “With piracy ruled out, what are the prime suspect organizations?”

This time, the lieutenant delivered good news. “Those are two questions we _can_ answer.” Goodwitch pulled her keyboard towards herself and rotated her desktop monitor so the officers could see its screen. Several mouse clicks and keystrokes later, she pulled up an audio file. “The Coast Guard extracted this from a black box in the ship’s security office.”

“ _Back then, they had all kinds of messed up executions.”_ Pyrrha didn't miss how Ruby’s eyes sharpened upon hearing the voice. _“If the captain was lucky, they'd tie him to the mast and shoot him, but that almost never happened. They might tie your hands and feet together, slit open a vein or three and dump you in shark-infested waters.”_

“Gods, that’s sick,” Pyrrha muttered. The recording continued.

“ _They might keelhaul you: tie you up and drag you underneath the ship, port to starboard. You'd be lucky not to get torn to shreds with all the barnacles and splinters poking out of the hull.”_

If Blake’s grimace was any indication, even she was mildly disturbed at this point.

“ _They might even hold you down on a table and force-feed you burning coals. I even read about a guy who had molten tin poured in his ears; yikes!”_

Yang paled and shivered. “Jesus…”

Goodwitch deadpanned, “Charming, I know. There’s more.”

“ _Just thinking about some of that stuff gives me the willies. But hey… it was par for the course. By now, I think you know who these fine individuals behind me are. And for a bunch of angry Faunus whose favorite pastimes are setting off improvised explosives and mutilating Atlesian soldiers? Well, I can't imagine the next few minutes of your life are going to be full of sunshine and flowers.”_

The recording ended, and the office was draped in silence until…

“Torchwick.”

The room’s occupants all turned to Ruby at her single grit out word. Her eyes had shifted from muted grey to intense steel, her jaw was set in a hard line, and she gripped the armrests with enough force to expose the veins and tendons in her hands and wrists.

Goodwitch looked the younger woman over with a curious eye. “Yes… Roman Torchwick.” She refocused to the room at large. “A major underworld arms dealer, turned mob boss after more than two dozen high-profile armed robberies on money trucks and banks. And now from this recording, it appears he has forged ties with the White Fang.”

The officers’ eyes widened, and Blake muttered a curse. Everyone knew about the White Fang. The original organization emerged during the American Civil Rights movement in the 1960s. Ethnic acceptance was progressing smoothly but Faunus rights were still in a deadlock, mainly due to lack of an organized image. The wide range of Faunus “races” may have vastly differed in appearance, but they all had one thing in common: their oppression.

If oppression was their sole commonality, then oppression would be the banner they united beneath. The White Fang’s chosen name was curious to say the least, especially with their members’ sworn commitment to nonviolence. As time passed, their peaceful actions caused more and more people to realize the White Fang only donned the masks humanity had already painted on them.

The White Fang’s efforts proved a massive success, with the Faunus being granted full rights alongside society’s other formerly downtrodden populations. Its purpose served, the organization dissolved; a happy memory of the men, women and children who had broken humanity’s cousins out of their government-imposed rut.

Until now.

In the late 2020s, a different organization took up the old movement’s name. They didn't even bother to claim alignment with the original White Fang’s morals and values -- stating only that they would “finish what their predecessors had started.” These people did not want Fanus equality. They demanded Faunus supremacy, and were willing to take any measures to achieve it. Simply put, the new White Fang was a global terrorist network. Their heaviest numbers were concentrated in Eastern Europe and the westernmost parts of Asia, with a steadily thickening presence in North America. Their rapid expansion was for the most part left unchallenged due to the short power vacuums following the Unification War that propelled Germany up into second place among the world’s superpowers and established the Atlesian Empire.

These terrorists had been satisfied with small scale hit-and-run attacks on local businessmen and law enforcement for a time, until a trio of suicide bombers took it upon themselves to erase half of Cologne’s police headquarters. Suicide or not, the White Fang learned not to try that kind of stunt again after German federal agents kicked in hundreds of doors and the greater Atlesian military crushed every last shred of rebellion in a hundred-kilometer radius.

Despite the government forces’ success, other White Fang members slowly trickled in after the military pulled out. They had yet to pull off any major strikes, probably thanks to GSG9’s indefinite high alert status and counterinsurgency teams on fifteen minute deployment notice.

“The White Fang?” Blake spat the terror group’s name like it was poisonous. “Why the hell would a mob boss team up with _them_? They want humanity extinct, and any Faunus who doesn't agree with them, dead.”

Glynda pursed her lips; one of her most common expressions. “That is another thing we can’t yet answer.” She adopted an advisory tone, with the barest hint of warning. “Despite how strongly you may want to decipher this puzzle and bring Torchwick down…” Her eyes briefly passed over Ruby. “...it would serve you _all_ well to remember that that job falls to CID,” she said in reference to the Criminal Investigations Division; the department’s overarching entity under which operated its detectives, homicide investigators, Vice squad, and organized crime specialists, among others.

Pyrrha cleared her throat into a fist. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but what _is_ our job?”

At Goodwitch’s raised eyebrow, Ruby leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees. “Yeah. We appreciate you keeping us informed,” The sergeant turned up a palm, “But even I'm starting to wonder why you really brought us here.”

Yang piped up, “And why’d you tell us to stay away from Torchwick? Sure, we’d love to go after the guy, but we're patrol officers. What are we gonna do? Cite him for rolling a stop sign?”

Glynda sighed, and the barest hint of fatigue crept into her voice. “Very well. Forgive me for talking in circles; recent events have been… rather hectic.”

Ruby glanced at her own knees, feeling bad for trying to pry more information out of Glynda’s brain. Just taking this in was taxing enough for the four officers, but Goodwitch had to stay constantly updated with a volatile situation teetering on national incident. That meant sifting through and organizing a flood of information from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Office of National Intelligence (ONI), Immigration Security Bureau (ISB) and a _ménage-à-trois_ of state troopers, county deputies and local officers.

After comparing notes between the agencies to determine what matched up, Goodwitch had to compile the resultant mass of raw data into something that wouldn’t require cork board and red string to make sense of, and then relay the final product to her subordinates, the other lieutenants, her own immediate superiors, and since she currently liaised between VCPD and this case’s scattered mess of a joint task force, the Commissioner himself.

Ruby respected Lieutenant Goodwitch for many reasons, and this absolute Charlie-Foxtrot added several items to that list. Were their positions reversed, the brunette couldn't say if she would have passed out by now.

Goodwitch rubbed her temples. “I gathered you four to offer you a very… unorthodox assignment.” She noted the quirked brows and and puzzled expressions. The prospect of low-ranked patrol officers having a choice in their duties was incredibly confusing. “The _Schlesien_ raid was not the only incident.” She pulled up another file on her computer. “Barring time zone differentials, this occurred roughly one hour after the hijacking.”

When the lieutenant stepped aside, the screen displayed the first frame of a phone video. Ruby died inside when she realized it had been recorded vertically. The phone’s owner stood outside a large building, and it didn't take much guesswork to figure out where they were. A massive silver rendition of the Schnee family crest, doubling as their company’s insignia, was emblazoned above the building’s ornate glass doors. This was the Schnee Oil Company’s towering skyscraper in Germania. Formerly known as Berlin, the reconstructed ultra-modern metropolis of Germania served as the capital and seat of power of both the German national government and the greater Atlesian Empire.

The building’s doors opened when the video started, revealing a quartet of men in black-and-white suits and sunglasses -- three with wraparounds and one with aviators -- escorting Jacques Schnee to a limousine parked out front. The phone’s owner turned out to be one among a mob of reporters, as the CEO came under immediate verbal assault from dozens of press employees. He avoided eye contact, ducked under their cries of _“Herr Schnee!”_ and dodged their rapid fire questions.

And then three gunshots rang out.

One of Jacques Schnee’s escorts fell, clutching the side of his neck. The three who remained drew sidearms from their jackets and bodily covered the CEO in a sprint for the car. Another of his men dropped with a headshot, and Schnee unceremoniously dove into the car.

As the limousine sped off, one of the SOC men pointed at someone to the right of the cameraman. He sighted in on his pistol and yelled, _“Schiesse ihn! Shoot him!”_

The other man spun around and brought his own weapon to bear. The recording ended abruptly as they both fired at their unseen target.

Yang let out the breath she'd been holding. The corporal blinked big and slow. "So... that happened."

Goodwitch nodded. “Indeed it did. These two incidents have pushed Mr. Schnee to enact major security increases for senior company executives.”

Glynda looked to her officers once more. Were they truly ready for this? She wanted to believe as much, but this was out of her hands. Even if she had wanted to intervene, there wasn't much a lieutenant like herself could do when the Commissioner personally delivered a handwritten, signed order.

“That added security goes double for his family… which is where you come in.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

Yang eloquently summarized their thoughts: “...wut?”

The taller blonde took over again before questions started flying. “I admit my reaction was similar. Please, allow me to explain.”

Ruby gestured for her to continue. “Of course.”

“Thank you. I'll keep this short.”

Glynda opened another image file. It was a portrait, and the person in it was… Well, she was certainly unique. Long ivory hair in an offset ponytail framed the young woman’s face. Her poise was elegant, almost soft, but her crystal blue eyes projected iron determination. What really caught Ruby’s attention was the thin scar that traced a short distance from her left eyelid down her cheek.

Glynda filled in the obvious question, and ticked off each info point on her fingers. “This is Jacques Schnee’s daughter, Weiss. Twenty-seven years old. Heiress to the Schnee Oil Company. Double major in business accounting and petroleum engineering from the University of Germania.” She took a breath before delivering the final point, and their assignment. “Her safety will be your responsibility.”

“Huh…” Ruby pondered her superior’s words, “Protection duty, then?”

“Put simply, yes.” She noticed Ruby’s lifted eyebrow. “Is something the matter?”

“About the job? No. It’s weird, though. Why isn't SOC security handling this like the others? And don't the Feds have a division for this kind of work anyway?”

“We haven't been given a straight answer, but paranoia is a likely culprit. Mr. Schnee may not trust corporate security with his daughter’s life after these attacks. As for the Federal Protective Service, he might believe they are too high-profile to be trusted.”

Ruby shrugged. “Good enough for me.”

Yang grumbled in the background. “Great. So now we’re stuck answering to a suit halfway around the world.”

Glynda’s eyes sharpened. “No, Corporal. You answer to _me_.”

The younger blonde shrunk back into her chair. “Right.”

Ruby set the conversation back on track. “What about housing, Lieutenant? This doesn't sound like a short-term assignment.”

“Hmm… we’re still looking for a suitable location for Ms. Schnee. Until then, she will stay here at the precinct. As amusing as it would be to house her in the drunk tank…” Yang gave a small pout. “…I’m sure an office would be appreciated.”

Ruby dropped her hands on her knees. “She can bunk in mine.” A smirk tugged at her lips. “Since, y’know, I'm the only one who’s got an office.”

Yang clutched at her stomach in mock hurt. “Ouch. Way to rub it in, Rubes.”

“I got promoted for a reason, two-stripe.” She turned back to Goodwitch. “Any known threats besides the White Fang?”

“None at the moment, but this is a delicate situation. Stay alert. Any number of interested parties might benefit from removing Ms. Schnee, even rival corporations.”

Yang crossed her arms. “What, you think Exxon’s gonna hire Blackwater mercenaries to bump her off or something? Ugh, this is sounding more and more like a bad spy movie. All we need is some forced romance and we’re set.”

Sarcasm dripped from Ruby’s voice. “We got any popcorn to go with this?”

Yang’s eyes lit up. “Ooh! I can pick some up at the Circle K!”

Blake took two steps forward and smacked her girlfriend upside the head. Yang rubbed at her grievous injury. “Owie… domestic aboose,” she whined, “ _Glyndaaa_ , are you gonna just let her do that?”

The woman in question looked up at Blake. “Thank you, Belladonna.”

Yang sputtered, “But… but I… wha-?”

Ruby redirected the briefing once again. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”

“Good. Ms. Schnee will be arriving at seventeen hundred tomorrow. Make sure you are all present and ready.”

Blake smirked, remembering what Yang would call their ‘assclap retarded overtime’. “Just in time for us to get back from the streets.”

For once, Glynda matched her mirth. “I can't let you get bored, now can I?”

Ruby snorted. “No. No, you can't. Anything else we should know?”

The older woman shook her head. “That’s all for the moment. I will inform you of any new developments as they arise.”

Ruby stood and brushed off her uniform. “Alright. See you all tomorrow. I’ve got a date with my pillow and a bottle of Melatonin.”

Yang snickered. “Speak for yourself. _I’ve_ got a date with Kit-Kat over here and a bottle of whiskey.”

Glynda raised a finger. “Corporal Xiao Long? Congratulations. You’ve been randomly selected for a urinalysis tomorrow.”

“What?!”

“Zero six thirty, and not a minute later.” The older woman looked more smug than Ruby had ever seen her. “Your career is on the line, Corporal. Be careful not to… _piss it away._ ”

If the author hadn’t removed Semblances, Yang would have set half the precinct on fire in a red-eyed rage. “That’s my pun! THAT’S MY PUN, YOU DRIED UP ROTTEN SOUL-SUCKING BI--”

Yang was subsequently carried out of the lieutenant’s office by her compatriots before she could get herself arrested for aggravated battery on a peace officer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came across a Half-Life 2 mod on Gamebanana that replaces the crowbar with Yang's arm. So... that happened, I guess. And before anyone asks, yes: I brought in ONI and the ISB, because fuck Innies (that’s “Insurrectionists” for those not up to snuff on Halo lore), and fuck backwater rebel moisture farmers. Go back to farming moisture, you absolute degenerates.
> 
> Okay, but in all seriousness, I’m sorry for taking… *checks calendar* DAMN NEAR FIVE FRIGGIN’ MONTHS to continue this. If we could paste images into our stories, I’d slap in a meme I found where a dude’s holding his paycheck and saying, “Hell yeah! I just got paid!” and then his bills pop up like, “Nah fam, I just got paid.” What I’m trying to say is, work and life are partly to blame here (guh, adulting)... but to be honest, it’s about a 30-70 split between that and laziness. I am truly sorry for neglecting such a great and positive audience for this long. I know you AO3 people didn't have to deal with that, but this is a copy-paste of my FFN author's note with a few additions SO I'M APOLOGIZING ANYWAY. The Last Call gained 30 followers in its first twenty-four hours on FFN. I am not bragging; that kind of popularity was unheard of for someone whose previous record was twenty-two followers in two years. I wouldn’t care if I fail to pick up even one more follower until the end: the numbers (on FFN; it's only been up *here* for an hour lmao) as they are already bring a smile to my face every time I look at them. 
> 
> Anyway, this is actually only half of what I had planned for chapter two, but I felt really bad for making you guys wait this long. Fortunately I’ve more or less outlined the next few chapters, so we should have smoother sailing from here on in. Buckle up, boys and girls, because you’re about to see some serious action when we come back.
> 
> Until then, cheers!  
> \--Sarge
> 
> [The FFN version of this story has a "Fallen Heroes" section where I list American public safety officers killed in the line of duty between chapters. I'm reluctant to post that here due to AO3's lower tolerance for what could be construed as spam.]


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